The Aafster Life

Little magazine

2012-02-15T23:48:00.000+05:00

The latest issue of Papercuts is out! My gorgeous blogger friend Mahwash Badar's written for us this time, along with several other talented writers. This is a special issue for me (well, actually all of them are) because it's my last one as Editor. Check it!

Papercuts Vol. 9 - Tall Tales

My Beautiful Literette

2012-02-13T00:19:00.000+05:00

Here is a blogpost I wrote this morning for Desi Writers Lounge about Hanif Kureishi at the first day of the Karachi Literature Festival.

KLF 2012 - A Conversation with Hanif Kureishi

It's an uninspiring title, but I realised a little while ago that it gives the erroneous impression that I was in conversation with him. Ergo the title remains as is.

You speaka da English?

2012-02-05T14:00:00.001+05:00

Me: Solom, you want more fries?

Solom: YAS.

Me: Betay what's 'yas'? It's 'yes', okay?

Solom (nodding vigorously): Okay, yas.

Here's something you'll want to do

2012-02-02T21:29:00.003+05:00

One of my favourite bloggers is running an essay contest on her blog! The theme is Modern Love - super interesting and so open to interpretation. She's promising to publish each entry AND there's a prize. So don't just hang around with your mouth open... check it out!!!

Cooking up a storm

2012-02-02T21:11:00.000+05:00

Conversation between Solom and me, making pizza this evening.

Me: Look Solom! What is this?

Solom: MAMA. This is MUSHROOM.

Me: Garlic.

S: This is GAARIC.

Me (waving bowl under his nose): What does it smell like? Does it smell sweet?

S: NO.

Me: Then? What does it smell like?

S: MAMA. It smells like... it smells like MUSHROOM and BUTTER and SALT and ANDA and TOAST and JUICE and CANDY and OTHER THINGS and... and SCHOOL.

Me: Really.

S: Mama, Solom school jaey ga.

A Love Letter

2012-01-25T03:16:00.000+05:00

DEAR NANDO’S,

This is the first time I am writing a love letter to a restaurantchain. But what can I say? In the words of a big-nosed fella: you complete me.And you’re about to find out how, in a little more detail than you might anticipate.

My son has a runny nose these days. And when he gets a runnynose, he gets a nasal drip. And when he gets a nasal drip, he coughs. And if hecoughs long and hard enough, he throws up. Tonight was one of those nights,Nando’s. I am telling you all this because relationships such as ours must bebased on complete honesty. I don’t have help in the house these days, Nando’s.And I am allergic to detergent. The skin on my hands is scaly and splitting becauseof the daily dish washing. My knuckles were BLEEDING yesterday, Nando’s, and I’mstill washing up in the kitchen ‘till past midnight every night. Do you feel mypain? I knew you would.

That’s why I called you tonight. Just when I thought thedishes were done, three more popped up, and the very idea of having to pick upthat sponge again near killed me with misery. And then I thought, what if I hadan incentive to finish? And what better incentive is there in the world for awoman than chocolate? And how else could I get hold of chocolate at 11.30 pm unlesssomeone delivered it to my doorstep? That is when I picked up the phone insteadof the sponge and dialed the number for your delivery service. I did not havehigh hopes, Nando’s, but an authoritative sounding guy whose name I don’tremember assured me that you deliver until 12.30 am. This waslegit; I was in through the door. So I ordered one slice of your divine chocolatecake to be delivered at my house within 45 minutes. I now had a deadline inwhich to finish washing up the kitchen.

It was then that I heard my son coughing. And I ran to theroom as fast as my horizontally ample legs could carry me, but it was not fastenough. Do you know what it feels like to confront the grossness of your poorson’s puke at 11.30 pm and realize that you now have another half hour ofwashing and cleaning up ahead of you? Do you understand that feeling that creepsup on the most determined of us mothers – the “I will NEVER get my life backagain, ever-ever-ever” feeling? Do you get it? I knew you would. Becausetonight, it was only the thought of that chocolate cake that kept me going,beloved Nando’s. Even as I believed that I would be cleaning vomit for the restof my days, I still knew that there was chocolate cake around the corner. Yousaved me tonight.

Thanks to you, I will probably never need to go intotherapy. Because each bite of that cake is worth an hour on the leather couch. Atherapist could only listen, whereas your cake paints my troubles chocolate(yes, that’s a colour). I will finish this letter with an appropriate ode – i.e.a marketing tagline:

There are others inthis business who claim to be purveyors of happiness…

… but only Nando’s delivers!

Wah wah, if I may say so myself.

With thanks (and eternal love),

Me.

Nanny McFlee

2012-01-11T02:17:00.000+05:00

Everyone beat their heads together now, because do I havenews for you. We lost our nanny. Again. For the third time in a year. Shoot menow. (No really, I’m going through such nannyless hell these days that it mightactually be a relief if someone were to grab a gun and oblige.)

It could have been worse. My Khala told me she went througheleven nannies in 1972. Now that’s commitment. I don’t know how many of thoseleft of their own accord, though. Because that’s what’s just happened to us,and believe me, there is no closure in it for the employer. Saima, aka ThirdTime Lucky, was a dream come true. Polite, presentable, loving to the children,hard worker, pleasant. We knew she was engaged to be married but she had nointentions of walking down the aisle until she was done putting her sisterthrough her education. So responsible and philanthropic too. How nice it allsounds, no? Waaaaaaaahh!!!

Anyway. There was one hitch. When we hired her, she couldnot provide us the number of her previous employer. She’d worked at a house inLahore, she said, and she had lost their number. In the summer of 2011, wefound out quite by chance (and this is an amazing coincidence) that Saima’semployers in Lahore were in fact relatives of ours. A little investigationrevealed that she had been a superb worker and that they spoilt her to the hiltso that she wouldn’t quit, so much so that when she was going for her first longleave, they lent her a large suitcase and a mobile phone. She never returned, andneither did the case and the phone. No wonder she lost their number.Ironically, before we’d left for the trip where we found out this information,Saima had asked me to please buy her a medium-sized suitcase from her salary.She said she already had a large one, but that was too big for a five-day tripto Islamabad. No prizes for guessing where the large suitcase had come from.

ANYWAY. Despite finding out this information, we kept ThirdTime Lucky on. Because she really was a superb worker. And she was polite andpresentable and loving to the children and… waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahh!!! What was Isaying? Yes, we kept her on and kept checking on our baggage once in a while,just in case (I’m kidding… we’re not very good at keeping an eye on our baggageactually; it comes out of the storage with wheels missing and stuff and we're like, "Hain? When did that happen?"). Kher, itwas all going very well. Then my cousin’s wedding came up in Lahore and here wewere again, jetting off for a three-week trip to the other end of the country.We took Saima with us, which cost us an arm and a leg but also allowed us to participatein the wedding, frankly, so was worth every penny of the ticket. And… we lenther our suitcase.

Oh shut up.

While in Lahore, Saima said that she’d received a call fromher brother in Multan, asking her to come there for some legal work. Earlier,when I had asked her how many days she’d want off for Christmas, she’d saidNONE because she had no one in Lahore whom she would want to be with. Now shesuddenly had six brothers and four sisters, all of whom were converging inMultan and she wanted to go for a week-long trip that could stretch longer,depending on whether her official work was done in time or not.

“Baaji,” she told me, “mujhe shayed dair ho jaey. AapKarachi chali jaeya ga aur mein shayed khudi aa jaoon.” (I may get delayed. Imight just follow on my own after you’ve gone back to Karachi.)

“Saima,” I told her, “mein ne aap ke ticket ke liye teeshazaar rupay diye hain. Aap ki soch hai ke mein aik khaali, pandhran hazaar kiseat ke saath baith ke Karachi jaoon gi.” (I’ve paid thirty thousand bucks foryour ticket. If you think I’m flying back to Karachi next to an empty, fifteenthousand rupee seat, you’re sadly mistaken.)

So she promised she’d join us in Islamabad on the last legof our trip. To cut a long story short, she didn’t turn up. She stoppedanswering our phone and finally her brother, whom we managed to get through to,told us that he couldn’t possibly let Saima go until their legal work was done.Fair enough, but what about our suitcase?!

We returned to Karachi with one nanny and one suitcase less,and with a vastly diminished appreciation of our own IQs. Both children weresick. The cook couldn’t come for a few days. And Azfar rejoined officeimmediately, of course. It was damn hard, particularly because of the childrenbeing ill. And for me, personally, there was an enormous sense of betrayal. I’dalways been upfront and honest with her and tried my level best to be fair inour dealings. And Saima really loved my younger son, you know? I couldn’tunderstand how she could be clutching him and kissing him one day and takingoff indefinitely with our suitcase the next day.

Anyway. A few days later we received a call from her ‘handler’(the guy who had her placed at our house). Saima was getting married to herlong-time fiancé. She would not be returning. And yes, she knew this when sheasked for leave in Lahore.

Now Azfar has a very low threshold for such behaviour,particularly in professional relationships. He told the handler to communicateto Saima that she had an item of ours and that if it was not returned, he wouldlodge a police complaint. Lo and behold, Saima (who had not been answering ourphone for over a week) called five minutes later. And the suitcase was returnedto my aunt’s house in Lahore the following Sunday. Her wedding is on the 14^th.In other words, her jahaiz will now be sent to her husband’s house in another bag.

I remember coming to stay at my cousin’s place in Karachi fora month back in 2000. After thirty plus days of camping out in her room,befriending her dogs, attending her friends’ weddings, taking music lessonsfrom her master saab and talking to her psychic adviser at 2 am, I went back toIslamabad. When I asked her hopefully on the phone, “How does it feel not tohave me around anymore?” she said, “Well, the first thing I did was remove themattress from the floor. And with that and your suitcase gone, I was like Ahhhh… space!!” Badtameez aurat. “But Ido miss you!” she added a second later.

ANYWAY. Point being that that is exactly how I feel afterSaima’s departure. I’m suddenly thinking what else I can do with that room andat some levels it’s actually quite nice to have the house back to myself. But Ido miss her.

(Thank you, Mahwash B for providing the title for thispost.)

Starlight, star bright

2011-12-30T02:40:00.000+05:00

@madihariaz: You really need to deal with the fact that Solom's the star of your blog. Seriously.

@afiaaslam: Are you saying the rest of it is crap? #lowselfesteemmoment #joinsPTI

@madihariaz: No. Just that your son's a star. #getalifewoman

Double or nothing

2011-12-29T02:24:00.001+05:00

Me: I love you.

Solom: I luw yew tew.

Me: I love you MORE.

Solom: *confused*

Me (whispering): Say, "I love you most."

Solom: I luw yew almost.

Josh naal pao bhangra

2011-12-24T01:28:00.001+05:00

Oh good Lord.

Won the Best Diarist prize at the Pakistan Blog Awards.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!!!!!!

Storytime: Goldilocks and the Four Bears

2011-12-15T03:48:00.000+05:00

Gather round now, children, for it is time to hear a story.

Now you all may have heard of Goldilocks who ate the littlebear’s porridge and broke his chair and slept in his bed because it was alljust right for her. Forget that because it wasn’t real. The only thing you needto learn from that tale is that trespassing is illegal. And that sometimespeople take things that are yours and somehow get away with it even though yourparents are around and are SUPPOSED to be looking out for you and are biggerthan the evil person taking those things from you but are STILL somehow unableto stop that person, mostly because they think the other person’s cute orsometimes because they are watching their favourite show on TV and are a littlefed-up and think that it’ll be okay to just stop that person next time becauseit IS bound to happen again. Another thing you could learn from that tale isthat you can only eat, sit and sleep in peace as long as baby’s out of thehouse. Which brings us to our real story: Goldilocks and the Four Bears.

Once upon a time, there were four bears: Baba bear, Mamabear, Baby bear and Little Baby bear. Baba bear told Baby bear the Goldilocksstory once or twice before putting him to sleep. Now that we’re over theGoldilocks reference, we can get back to our main story. The four bears livedin Karachi and felt very hot in the summer. So one day Baba bear called anelectrician and told him to reset the ceiling fan so it would run faster. This botheredMama bear, who had always had a fear of fast ceiling fans because she wasconvinced that one would fall on her some day. Baba bear thought she was beingdramatic and in any case he was feeling very hot, so the fan was reset at afaster speed.

That year Karachi saw a very long summer, which continuedinto the first week of December. The fast fan served the family well, even ifMama bear would lie awake at night gaping at it and thinking, “Ab gira, ab gira…”But then, summers passed and one day a great chill descended over Karachi. Peoplebegan to wear medium cotton instead of thin cotton, and everyone agreed that winterwas finally here. The nights grew cool but still the fan continued whirringmadly over the four bears, making the room even cooler. And as we know, whenbaby bears feel cold at night, they pee.

One night, as Mama bear lay awake, thinking, “Ab gira, abgira… GOD, it’s cold, must call the electrician tomorrow!” Little Baby bearstarted whimpering in his sleep. Then he started thrashing around to the leftand right. After that he sat up and swayed around for a bit with his eyesclosed. Then he fell back on the bed as if he’d given up a great struggle. Thenhe squirmed his way across the bed until he’d reached his father, after whichhe sat up again and then collapsed on his father’s chest, all this whilesupposedly still being asleep. Baba bear awoke because of the commotion, drewhis arm around Little Baby bear and then said gruffly, “Aaf, he’s wet himself.”For indeed that was why Little Baby bear had been thrashing around.

When Mama bear was done changing Little Baby’s clothes anddiaper and had finished cleaning the mattress and the bedsheet, she heard asound from the cot where Baby bear was sleeping. Now Baby bear was thrashingaround, moaning, “Mamaaa… garam duddoooo…” Baba bear and Mama bear took onelook at each other (the only sort of look that parents are capable ofexchanging at 3 am) and sure enough, when Mama bear went to the cot to check,Baby bear had wet himself too. She shook Baby bear awake. “Solom,” she said,shaking him. Baby bear did not wake up. “SOLOM,” she said, shaking him harder. Babybear still did not wake up. “Get up,” Mama bear hissed, poking him in hisprivates. Baby bear opened his eyes and said, “Mama? Wonder Pets is sleeping.” “Yes,betay, they are the only ones managing that right now,” Mama bear replied and dragged Baby bear to thetoilet.

When Mama bear was done scolding Baby bear while he wassitting on the commode and had finished changing Baby bear’s clothes and had strippedthe mattress protector from the cot and replaced the sheet, she found LittleBaby bear sitting up in the master bed, wide awake and looking very interestedin everything that was going on.

“Aaaaeeee?” Little Baby bear said. “Shhhhhhhh!” Mama bearsaid. Little Baby bear looked at her with big eyes.

“AAAAAAAEEEEYAAAAYAAAA!!!” he exclaimed, as if saying, “Whyare we pretending that everyone’s asleep?”

“What’s the matter with the two of you?!!!” Mama bearshouted. “Do you think I have nothing to do other than to run from bed to cot, cleaningup your pee??!!”

“Shhhh!!!” Baba bear said, who was still pretending to beasleep.

“Babaaaaaaaaaaa!” Little Baby bear gurgled, now that he wassure that Baba bear was in fact awake. So he stood up, took a few totteringsteps across the bed, threw himself on Baba bear’s chest and started slappinghis face. Mama bear and Baba bear exchanged another look. Mama beardeterminedly took a step towards the bed.

“I will take him to the other room,” Baba bear said,sounding like a sacrificial lamb.

“Okay! Please turn the fan off on your way out!” Mama bearsaid and with that she climbed into bed, pulled the coverlet over her head andpretended to fall asleep. And they all stayed sleep deprived ever after. TheEnd.

A Proposal

2011-12-14T17:32:00.003+05:00

This is just an interim post. I'm travelling for an out-of-town wedding these days and seeing my cousin and his fiancee interacting in the midst of the wedding hullabaloo, which is slowly building up to a pitch, is making me nostalgic. It occurred to me that in the post I wrote earlier, in which I described how Azfar and I had decided to tie the knot, probably the most important story was of how he proposed. It's that time of year again when weddings and love are in the air, so let's share our proposal stories! How did it happen for you? I'd love to hear any and all stories: romantic/arranged, staid/crazy, whirlwind/never ending, funny/weepy - even proposals that didn't end in marriage! It'll be such fun to compare our experiences. Out with it!

An Evidence-based Approach

2011-12-07T03:15:00.001+05:00

Animated dinner-table discussion on the Veena Malik/FHM cover scandal.

Azfar: She's got her arm across her chest so she OBVIOUSLY went topless, otherwise WHY would she pose like that?

Me: Yes but she's saying that that's not her AT ALL, you see. She's saying her head's been photoshopped on top of someone ELSE'S body.

A: Hmm. Then she should release another picture of her body to prove that it's not her.

Me: *staring*

A: What?

Me: Good one, Azfar.

A: No, I didn't mean...

Me: Of course you didn't.

A: Yaar she can take a picture of her stomach, can't she?? NO ONE has the same belly button!

The Blasphemist

2011-12-06T15:30:00.001+05:00

Conversation while trying to put wide-awake Solom to bed after a long, long day.

Me: Okay betay, good night.

Solom: MAMA?

Me: Yes?

S: Solom's go OUT.

Me: Solom will do nothing of the sort. Solom will close his eyes and think of Allah and then Solom will Go. To. SLEEP. GOOD NIGHT.

S: MAMA!!!

Me: WHAT?

S (holding three fingers out): How many Allahs I have?

Here and Nowhere Else

2011-12-03T09:28:00.001+05:00

I got a call today from a cousin who’s a particular favouritein the family. He’s about to get married and he and his fiancée were thinkingof getting away for a bit over the long weekend before the wedding madness kickedin later this month. Things got a little tricky when they remembered that theextra holidays were on account of the 9^th and 10^th ofMoharram and, given the possibility of violence, it may not be safe to travel.So what did my cousin do? Called his cousin who’d married a Shia, of course.

“Thanks, Puch,” I said on the phone. “I like how I’ve becomethe family resource person on Ashura security arrangements.”

“Of course, Aafoo,” he replied, blowing a kiss on the phone.

“I honestly don’t think there should be a problem gettingout of Lahore. Just find out what the route of the procession is going to beand avoid that. Avoid crowded areas. And try not to take Kate to a majlis as acultural experience.”

Then I told him I had to go say my prayers, which I’d been tryingto do for the last half hour except the phone kept ringing. And sitting onthe prayer mat, I begged God to please keep my husband safe this Ashura. I usually ask forprotection for our family, but these prayers tend to become more distraught in thefirst two weeks of Moharram.

There were many things I was told before this marriage tookplace. I was given warnings, most of them about salvation (or lack thereof). Otherstried to warn me about practical considerations like the importance of ahusband and wife being on the same spiritual page, especially when there wouldbe children in the picture. I lost some people along this path; people who wereimportant to me. But there was something about this man that inspired me to bea better person, and in a vague but overwhelming way that outweighed all other religiousor political considerations.

I’m not going to romanticize this unnecessarily. The fact isthat Azfar very nearly didn’t propose to me. We were best friends, had immenserespect for each other and loved spending time together, but he was a good son andwould never have taken a decision to marry out of the Syed Shia fold unless hefelt seriously compelled to rewrite fourteen hundred years of family history. Ijust got lucky that one day he did feel compelled to. He spent that whole nightleafing through pictures of us together over the years and then made up his mind to ask me. It was so sudden that he never even managed to plan a properproposal: he walked into my mother’s house after office the next evening,pulled a half-dead rose out of the inner pocket of his coat with a flourish andsaid, “Will you marry me?”

“Azfar,” I said once I’d remembered to breathe, “if you wantto propose to me, you’d better do it properly. I’m not marrying anyone with aproposal like that.”

So he took me to the Marriott and there, sitting in Nadiacoffee shop, he said, “Give me a minute.” Then he placed his fingers on histemples and closed his eyes like he was going to teleport himself out of thesituation. And after that he delivered the BEST proposal: nothing over the top,nothing cheesy, just a simple, honest exposition of why he believed from thebottom of his heart that we should be together for the rest of our lives. Ithink what decided it for me was that while he was speaking, I had a suddenpremonition. It actually came to me like a flash, electricity running throughmy body and all: we were sitting on a jhoola at our mehndi a few months later;then it was us again further down the line with a child in our arms. It was theEureka moment I’d always been told to look out for when deciding whether aperson was the right one, and there it was. As I wrote on the DWL forums a fewmonths later, ‘I couldn't have imagined all these years that it was your warmneck that this cold nose would eventually call home.’

There were things I did not see that day. I never saw myselfsitting on the prayer mat as I was this evening. I did not foresee the mortificationof watching yet another news item about a sectarian attack on television withmy in-laws. I did not see myself standing at the door every 9^th and10^th of Muharram with dread slowly uncurling itself deep in mystomach as I bid goodbye to my husband and family leaving for the procession.None of the warnings that I got included, “Afia, you will be afraid for the rest ofyour life. You will be afraid for your husband and for your children too, because they will be hissons. You will be afraid of having suddenly gained everything and then havingit taken away from you just as suddenly.”

‘I cannot wait to surround myself with happiness. My mind isfull of giggles, excited whispers, children's voices. Running feet on thefloor. Kitchen curtains in primary colours. White kurtis with blue embroidery.You.’

Something else I’d written on the DWL forums back in 2007, threeweeks after we’d gotten engaged. There are times when I wonder if I would’veaccepted the proposal if I’d foreseen the fear. I would never have known any ofthis, of course: the way Solom looks up at me, his three-year-old eyes so fullof soul and understanding; how Zain charges down the corridor with his torsoperfectly immobile but his backside moving left and right like a ticker gonemad; or the way my heart soars when Azfar walks in through the door. I wouldnever have known any of this. So I wouldn’t have missed it. Right?

It’s just that it is impossible to imagine another life whenyou married the man who gave you your Eureka moment. And there are no guaranteesanywhere, in anything. I may never have found anyone worth settling down with,or worse I may have settled for someone who wasn’t worth it. A differentdecision back then would have cheated me out of my destiny – and this is my destiny. The fear is crippling,but there is also no greater happiness. He has the ability to make me remember:every time I see his smiling face come home, I remember why he was the one. AsI wrote four years ago, ‘I cannot believe your stability... the carefree,unquestioning way in which you love, the carefulness with which you hold meclose to your heart. You are real. You are here. You will stay.’

There are things I cannot foresee. So be it.

Malaysia, Shukriya

2011-11-28T23:31:00.001+05:00

All this talk of odd couples and Maldives in January hasreminded me of our first family vacation abroad, which happened earlier thissummer. We scheduled a two-week holiday with two small children to two countries(Singapore and Malaysia) and three locations (Singapore, KL and Langkawi),including an inter-country train ride, with a conference thrown in for goodmeasure. Absolute madness. The children fell sick three times (each) and Azfarfell sick twice, in addition to tearing a ligament in his shoulder. How, youmay ask? The incident I want to relate happened on our last night in Malaysia,at a lovely resort in Langkawi.

Our hut was located in the rainforest section of the resort,so there were standard warnings to watch out for wild animals, particularlybaboons. We’d left a tray out one night on the advice of the room service staffand the next morning, as might be expected, had found remains of sandwiches andfries strewn all over the porch (they even dipped into the ketchup, which to meis a much bigger sign of rampant globalization than any other story one’s heardabout fast food consumption in human beings; btw I’ve also heard of a goat thatgot addicted to Coke but more on that later).

Anyway, so we were aware thatwild animals roamed the rainforest. On our last night, we’d put the kids tosleep, finished packing and were about to go to bed when the motion-sensitivelight in the balcony came on.

“Oh my God, Azfar!” I whispered, skin prickling. “There’ssomething on the balcony right now!!”And I started tip-toeing across the creaky wooden floor towards the window.

“Aaf please let it be,” Azfar begged. “The kids will wake upand we have to get up so early. Let’s just go to sleep.”

So I tip-toed back sullenly and we fell asleep. At aboutthree in the morning, I had a dream. We’d left the balcony sliding door open bymistake, and a wild animal was entering with the intention of attacking us. So Idid what any normal person would do in my position: I sat up in bed and screamed a scream that must've crossed the rainforest, cleared the beach and woken up the mermaids in the ocean. I then saw a porcupine quill the size ofMinar-e-Pakistan shooting in through the same balcony door… straight at me. A proper attack wasunderway. Again acting with perfect rationality, I moved out of the way of thismissile - and fell off the bed.

In the meantime, Azfar, who was fast asleep on his stomach, woke up tothe sound of his wife’s blood curdling scream, turned his head and saw her twolegs up in the air, falling backwards off the bed. Now anyone in their rightminds would’ve figured that if most of a person’s body has already gone overboard, there is absolutely no sense in trying to grab their leg. But since heis very chivalrous and was obviously not thinking straight at the time, heshimmied across the bed while on his stomach and stretched out with all his force to catch holdof me. And that was how he tore a ligament.

The moment my head connected with the hardwood floor, I wokeup (obviously). It occurred to me that I was looking at the ceiling fromfurther away than when I had gone to sleep. So, being an utterly practicalperson, I climbed back onto the bed – only to see my husband sitting on theother side, clutching his shoulder.

Azfar: Ahhhh…

Me: “What happened??” (Ye acha hai, I’m the onewho just fell off the bed and he’s groaning!)

Azfar: [insert story] is what happened.

Me: “Oh noooooo, poor jaani, what can I do to help?”(I can’t believe he missed my leg AND pulled a muscle!)

Azfar: “I’ll be fine. Just get me that cream.”

Me: “Yes OF COURSE, jaani!” (Oh my God, we’reflying to Pakistan tomorrow! WHO’S GOING TO CARRY THE LUGGAGE?!)

We made it to the airport in one piece the next day andAzfar, who’d funneled all kinds of pain killers into his bloodstream, waslooking absolutely hale and hearty to anyone who didn’t know what had happenedthe previous night. Imagine the looks on the faces of the customs officials andpassengers as this tall, healthy, top-quality specimen of Pakistani male stood to the side with hisshades on while his visibly out-of-shape wife hrrumphed and hooed and haaed asshe lifted suitcase after suitcase onto the conveyor belt. Has anyone ever gotten a dirty look from a customs official here? Trust me, no you haven't. I don’t think anyone in the history of aviation has been gladder to board a plane than my husband was that morning. Pfft!

So, yes… Maldives. You'll pardon me if I'm not biting the bait yet!

The Aafster Life is competing in the Best Diarist category of the Pakistan Blog Awards! If you find my troubles and stresses as funny as I hope you do, take a moment to vote! Click on the button at the top right of the blog. Thanks!

The Odd Couple

2011-11-28T15:52:00.001+05:00

Unreal conversation with husband last night.

Azfar: The company has said that it'll send us to Maldives for a vacation. You wanna go?

Me (looking eternally suspicious of anything remotely corporate): Why?

A: If I can see this project through before the end of the year.

Me: Oh. Okay, so it's like a... what do you call it... *dangling hand in air*

A: Punkha.

Me: Punkha?! I meant carrot on a stick.

A: No, no, no stick. No scene like that.

Me: The CARROT is the important part, Azfar.

*second of silence*

A: So, you wanna go?

History in the Making

2011-11-27T23:38:00.001+05:00

Something's in the works that I am really excited about. I'm helping to set up a small workshop group for writers in Karachi - sort of like an offline version of Desi Writers Lounge, only intentionally much smaller and more focused in terms of developing content. A friend who's a published writer threw the idea my way a couple of months ago, we recruited three other writers and today we had the first ice-breaker to help the group gel before getting started. There are two other prospective writers whom we've asked to join the fold. Our plan is to cap the number of members at seven so that things stay personal and workshopping is more intense.

It's not a new idea but there's something about this group of people that's got me really optimistic. I'm the only one who represents the management side of the literary circus, being editor of a magazine. Two of the other members are acclaimed writers, which I expect is going to increase the standard of discourse substantially. Another member, a good friend, has just finished her novel and is expecting to be published in the coming year (let's hope the Mayans got that date wrong). There is one other member who I hadn't met before today but had read in an anthology of stories by women writers from Pakistan. The energy at this first meet was excellent and while we were sorting out details of where to meet, how often to meet and how not to tread on each others' toes (artist log hain, bhai, kuch bhi ho sakta hai) there was an overwhelming sense of potential. I kept thinking, "Something good can happen here."

If we're able to inspire each other and discipline ourselves enough to keep writing, this'll be something worth remembering later. I had a three-second flight of fancy while sitting at the table during the meeting, in fact. I could see myself twenty years in the future, when I would finally have achieved the jaw-dropping feat of publishing a line or two. A pimply, intense-looking reporter with round glasses would be interviewing me and would ask, "So what's this secret writers' society I've heard rumours of from your slimmer... sorry, younger... I mean, early days as a writer?" And I would smile enigmatically and say something profoundly writery (I haven't figured out what just yet; we got into an accident on the way back so the evening sort of went into a state of epic decline after that, thus rudely truncating my love affair with myself).

I really want to finish this post with a song and for some reason, this one keeps coming to mind. The actual story behind this scene from Shehzad Khalil's unforgettable drama 'Ehsas' is a terribly sad one, but just for today, I will reimagine it. The pretty mother (played by Shehwar Rahim) is me, of course, after a happy evening full of possibilities. The two precious boys are mine, those are my in-laws at the back, Khaled Anum is himself but he's still a close relative (proven by the fact that he and I alone are able to sing on pitch in the entire group). And that's Azfar with the video camera... gazing at me with rapt admiration, even looking up to thank God for giving him such a cool wife. Enjoy.

The Blogger's Handbook on How to Bring Out a Facebook Jalsa

2011-11-25T15:18:00.001+05:00

A lot of effort has gone into building a credible voting campaign for The Aafster Life at the Pakistan Blog Awards, and only some of it is mine.

It started with posting a link to the nomination page on Facebook and tentatively asking people to vote. In return, I offered each voter a "Hooah!" No matter which way you looked at it, this was a terrible strategy to garner support. As someone pointed out later, a vote ought to get a chicken, a shawl and some Quaid-e-Azams in return. The first response to the FB post was: Who you calling a Hooah???

Okay, so one person had voted. I was not expecting much from this or anything in life at that point. My husband was in China, my child had become a demon overnight and we were on a spooky unexplained-household-item-breakdown spree exactly when my poor in-laws were visiting. My new iPhone had died while charging, the microwave had started sparking, Zain had literally broken off a piece of our new stereo, the cook hadn't turned up, the meat shop hadn't opened and the toilet seat in the guestroom had come off its hinges for no good reason. The karma balance in my life seemed out. If I listened hard, the Universe did not seem to be saying, "Goooddd tiiime tooo siiignnn uppp foorrr a cooonteeest." To make things worse, another early-bird contender in the Best Diarist category of the blog awards already had 250 votes up before I'd even gotten started. And he was really sweet and encouraging, so the Universe was probably saying nice things to him, and all of this was fundamentally unfair because the Universe was supposed to be a neutral third-party.

My first tweet about the nomination was: Pl. ignore edited blog introduction. Terrified now that my name is actually up there. Vote karo, naak na katnay do! No one RTed that one - God knows why.

But the comments had started coming in on Facebook. Half the people couldn't figure out how to vote while the other half had randomly clicked on the yellow stars and then realised that they'd just brought the rating down. There was a deluge of "How do I"s and "Aargh"s. And yet it was a start - an unexpected one. A few hours later, two of my friends shared on the link to the nomination page, using words like 'fabulously funny' and 'slice of urban truths from Karachi' to describe this blog. Some people responded to their posts, using words like 'hilarious' and 'relatable'. "She has our kind of humour," one person said, "or am I overestimating us?" (Yes? Haw haw!)

And so the FB shares for the nomination page began to go up, and the votes started lazily rolling in. A friend of mine emailed her students, urging them to read the blog and vote. Then she got excited and started a blog too. Another friend posted a tweet threatening her followers with DMs if they didn't vote, and messaged a popular Indian blogger to check out The Aafster Life. Shortly after this, I received a wry tweet from one of my super-funny Twitter contacts: Someone in Bombay emailed me a link to your blog & asked me to vote. I have witnessed Washington intervening in our elections but this was a first! Kiya baat hai.

Yet another friend, a photographer who makes the meanest chicken w/cashew nuts you've ever tasted, posted a link to one of my posts with this comment:

alright afia I have a confession tomake! I cried and i cried out loud reading this piece. It is beautifullywritten and I felt as if you went inside my heart and was able to let out allthat I wanted to say for the past 5 and halfyears....thank you for writing this and making all the moms feel better :)

I watched all this with amazement, then gratitude, then amazed gratitude (and occasionally grateful amazement). I had become emotionally committed to the idea of giving this campaign my best. People believed in me, man. The least I could do in return was put up a good fight, right? Did I have to put on my boxing gloves now? Wait, how did one run a campaign anyway? Uh-oh.

And that's when some special magic kicked in. I don't know what happened, or how it happened, but the link to the nomination page went sort-of viral on Facebook. As of right now, it's gotten 374 shares. Only fifteen of those shares were made by my friends. I am itching to find out who the rest of the 359 people are. I want to throw them a party and hug all of them (unless someone's creepy - then they get a handshake; you have to be prepared for these things in Pakistan). There are people who've done so much that I want to look them in the eye and ask, "What do you want, really?" like my friend Mahwash. One minute we were discussing whether Ethan Hawke had greasy teeth and the next minute she was somehow promoting my blog nomination. Here is a select progression of her tweets:

1. Hey followers, wallowers, creepy nobodies and favorite somebodies. Vote for @AfiaAslam to win the Best Diarist (Pakistan Blog Awards)! (she forgot to attach a link to the nomination or the blog in that one).

We then graduated to a discussion on Madagascar's King Julian and the possibility that his version of 'I Like To Move It' was the best dance song ever.

2. Vote for @AfiaAslam. Better her than Imran Khan :-p (this time, a link was included).

3. Alright, pretty followers. Vote for @AfiaAslam as the Best Diarist at the Pakistan Blog Awards. She is awesome.

A few minutes later:

4. Be awesome. Support awesomeness. Vote 4 @AfiaAslam as The. Best. Diarist. Ever. Pak Blog Awards won't know what hit em!

5. If you want to be awesome, if you want to support awesomeness, vote for @AfiaAslam as Best Diarist. Shabash. Vote now.

She then posted on her blog, asking people to vote. Somewhere in the middle she also put up another campaign tweet but linked it to a story about an army doctor who murdered a doorman. It was an honest mistake.

6. Alright. By a show of tweets tell me who voted for @AfiaAslam today. Come on. Don't be shy. Or stingy.

By this time, my cousin Sara, who'd been watching from a bemused distance, commented on FB: You should probably run for elections and hire Mahwash as your campaign manager ;-) That inspired my friend to come up with multi-lingual campaign slogans, e.g. "Afiasaadi shair ai!", "Ullu mat baniyey, Afia ko vote dijiey!" and "Aavay hi aavay! Afia aavay!" We then dedicated songs to each other. Some faarigh and over-optimistic guy on Twitter asked us if we were sisters. The blog awards had given rise to some serious cameraderie - and don't look now but we were in the middle of a full-fledged campaign.

(Conversation on Facebook)

Sara: maybe a televised speech will help? you need to make a video of yourself thanking your FB public and post it- now THAT would be a campaign move :D

Ibaad: Totally agree with Sara, a video needs to be put up! It should start with our flag fluttering in the cool wintery breeze and with the quami tarana playing in the background and your opening line could be "Meray azeez humwatanoon / bloggeroon aap ko Afia ka salam", the rest i leave in your capable hands..

Madiha R: I think Ibaad and Sara are on to something. Except you should forgo the quami tarana and start off with a resounding cry from Solom for garam dudo.

Shazaf: lol! video idea zindabad! chalo chalo blogosphere chalo!

Mahwash: VEE DEE OH! *everyone chant with me* VEE DEE OH! HO HO HO! VEE DEE OH!

Shazaf: OH .. OH OH (i'm going to echo Mahwash)

Madiha R: VEE DEE OH! HO HO HO!

Mahwash: ooooh aaaa rriaaa rio! VEEEEE DEEEE OOH!!! ohpaa ohpaaa!

Shazaf: forget afia. i'm voting for mahwash!

Mahwash: GIRTI HUI DIVAAR KO! AIK DHAKKA AUR DO!!

Shazaf: but i don't want the wall that is afia to giro! ee oh ee oh ee oh!

Mahwash: (the wall is the competitors btw) AA FEE YAA! VEE DEE YO! VOTE APNA DO! HEE HEE HO! GO GO GO!

Shazaf: i'm sorry. i think the wall is ambiguous and we sound like we're pushing afia in a well.

Mahwash: OH *pauses for thought* How about "AFIA KA BOL BALA HAI! KIS KIS NE VOTE DALA HAI?!"

Me: Dude I went for lunch and in the meantime...

Mahwash: Lunch? Aur mera yahan gala sookh gaya.

Me: Hahahahaha! I wish I could put all this DOWN somewhere takeh baad me yaad rahay!!

Me: OH.

Me: Gotta go, inspiration has struck.

Mahwash: BLOGGO BLOGGO, Afia, HUM TUMHARAY SAATH HAIN.

Shazaf: ^ bloggo?

Mahwash: minglish portmanteaux of english word blog- and the urdu verb of karo.

Shazaf: fail.

And that's what it's been like. Isn't this post a little premature, you might ask? No it isn't, because this isn't a victory lap; it's a tribute. I don't care anymore whether I win or not. In less than a week my insignificant little blog has gone from just over 4,000 page views to 9,000 page views. A nomination page with elusive yellow stars was shared on by hundreds of people I didn't even know and the vote count went up by 100 in 24 hours. New friendships were forged and a hell of a lot of fun was had. People wrote back with all kinds of superlative praise for this blog. That doesn't mean that it is the best thing around - it just means that the words that reside here spoke to them. THIS is success.

There's one word for this feeling: WAH! What A High.

Stop the Press

2011-11-24T19:42:00.001+05:00

Just when my campaign for the Pakistan Blog Awards is well on its way and for the first time I am actually daring to hope for a good outcome, I have encountered the worst writer's block in history. Ironic, but not entirely surprising when you consider how the rest of my day tends to go. Everyone's been saying, "You need to get back to blogging." "You need to put up another entry," they say. "You need new content for the judges to see." And I want to say, "To kya karoon? Zor lagaoon??"

There is a simple, entertaining idea in the works, but it is taking all my patience and power of imagination to get it to stand on its own, and it may not work even then. As I was telling a friend last night, I think I finally understand how men feel about impotence. And so there is only one thing to do: wait for it!

Vote for The Aafster Life

2011-11-21T02:44:00.001+05:00

I'm competing for the Best Diarist Category of the Pakistan Blog Awards 2011. There, I said it. If you've laughed at Solom's grammar, admired how Azfar's tongue is permanently wedged in his cheek, gaped at Imtiaz's exploits and cringed at my bloopers, THE LEAST YOU COULD DO IS VOTE, YEAH.

No really, this is the first time I'm trying for something of this sort and it would mean the world if you could help me get a winning chance at this thing. Here's how:

Go to my nomination page (you can also go through the Awards button at the top right of the blog). Once you're there, scroll down and click on the small, yellow stars to vote. Clicking on the fifth star to the right will give the highest rating. Tada! Easy as... other simple stuff.

If you get that far, please consider sharing the nomination page on as well. Make your vote count: help me win! And let me know if you've voted. I will send you good karma and we'll be happy together. Thanks a bunch, everyone :-D

On role play

2011-11-16T23:58:00.001+05:00

Conversation between me and Solom while reading a book:

Me: Look Solom, who is this?

Solom: This is TWO BOYS.

Me: Haan, and what is this boy's name?

S: SULEIMAN.

Me: And this one?

S: THIS IS THE BOY IS ZAINOO.

Me: And what is this?

S: This is ELEPHANT.

Me: And what is the elephant's name?

S: MAMA.

Critical Reading: the Murder of Manto

2011-10-30T03:18:00.003+05:00

Went to an excellent critical reading session at T2F two nights ago. With the help of Ajmal Kamal, we dissected the edited version of Manto's short story 'Naya Qanoon' as it had appeared in the Urdu textbooks in Sindh. The write-up on the event can be found here.

In Passing

2011-10-23T22:31:00.002+05:00

Me: I've decided I'm going to have an affair.

Azfar: Really.

Me: Yes. First, I am going to get into shape. Then I'm going to get myself some nice clothes. THEN I'm going to have an affair.

Azfar (looking relieved): Oh good! I'll be dead by then!

A Life Less Extraordinary

2011-09-26T04:25:00.001+05:00

At the back of every educated woman's head lurks the suspicion that she's destined for greatness. That's why we went to college after all, when we could just as easily have been reproducing a year into our first period. That's why we learnt how to use the computer before we cooked our first meal. That's why we grew up hearing words like 'career', 'success' and 'balance' - and questions like, "What do you want to do?" We were supposed to make something of ourselves. We were supposed to be better than women who never imagined they could do anything other than rear children. A lot of money was invested in developing our brains so that we could... well, use them.

It's 3.37 am and I am writing this with the heady fumes of Dettol slowly permeating every valuable grey cell that inhabits this skull. That's because the better part of the last hour has been spent cleaning up the healthy portions of half-digested sausage that my son threw up in his bed, on the rug, just outside the bathroom door and then in the bathroom itself. Perhaps I'm writing this because I need an excuse to binge on chocolate cake in the wee hours of the morning. Or maybe the Dettol is clouding my judgement. Who knows. All I can say with confidence is that at this moment, my education is completely useless. The only trail I'm capable of blazing right now is the sort you might see if you threw a burning match at a woman reeking of disinfectant running down a corridor with a wiper.

And that is difficult to accept. It is a tough moment when you realise that after all the years of presuming that you'd become something, you have actually turned out quite ordinary. That your life, too, has been reorganised around the concept of birthday parties, quarterly assessments and macaroni with cheese, just like all those unbearably average women you were always so SURE you were never like. UN reports talk about women like you: they say you are worth educating because you're three times more likely to send your children to school. You too are a majority statistic - and in all likelihood you will stay one.

But is that so bad? What's so unbearable about being the lynchpin of bloody society, after all? Yes, there's no fame or fortune in it. Yes, much of your day is spent in what could only be described as menial tasks. There are no thanks to be had, no certificates of appreciation, no annual bonuses. But you are part of that silent mass of worker ants that holds things together, are you not? If it weren't for this army, fighting its small battles quietly in the background every single day, where would the world be? If we weren't content with playing this supporting role, the whole cast - hell, the whole dang film - would collapse. So yeah... motherhood. It's the most thankless voluntary work in the world, but this is one community service the world cannot do without.

At least that's what I have to tell myself at moments like this one.

One of THOSE moments

2011-08-18T16:02:00.007+05:00

I'm the kind of mother who's constantly beating herself up for not being around enough for the kids. And I don't even do an office job. For what it's worth, I am home and available at a moment's notice should the need arise. But the truth is, there's a magazine to run and there are many times in a day when I realise I should've been with my sons for the last hour, playing with blocks, instead of monitoring the online stats on Papercuts or sending out emails to team members. And I feel bad about that - a lot. I know why my younger son starts crying when he sees me pull out the laptop, and why Solom gets agitated when he sees me zipping to the living room (i.e. the laptop's permanent abode).

This afternoon I was heading out to the salon for some quick work and I realised Solom did not want to let me go. We waved 'bye' to each other and I said, "I'll be back soon! See you!" and all the cheerful things one says, but he kept his eyes fixed on me and, with his arm stretched out and with utter distress written all over his face, kept calling out - "Mama? Mama?" He did not want me to go.

I had to go, of course, but I kept wondering why it was such a big deal for him. And then I realised, it's because he never sees me leave. You see, I'm based at home, out of choice, and because we're new in Karachi (and, let's face it, it's big ol' busybusybusy Karachi) I don't go out a lot to hang with friends. So this is what Solom sees every day: he gets dropped off to school by Mama. He comes out of school and Mama is there to pick him up. He goes to play, Mama's waving at the door. He comes back, Mama's waiting for him. So now when Mama was leaving and he was home, he didn't know what to make of it.

And that's when it hit me: I am there for my son. I am. And he knows it. Isn't that awesome?!

Amma, tussi vee great ho

2011-08-17T03:06:00.000+05:00

So I called my mother and asked her to read the latest blog entry. Five minutes later, I received this text message:

The computer is dead. Long live the computer.

Isloo, tussi great ho

2011-08-15T18:38:00.005+05:00

I’ve been missing Islamabad a lot lately. Not that there’s anything wrong with Karachi *stops, reconsiders that statement* but with my friends putting up annoying FB status updates like ‘Rain in Isloo, sooo beaaauuutiful’ and ‘Clouds over mountains *sigh* <3’ and ‘Romantic n rainy… wattay morning!’ my longing for ye ol’ pind has increased tenfold.

Going back is always a mixed bag, though. Not that there’s anything wrong with Islamabad *stops, reconsiders statement* but the fact of the matter is that now when we visit the city, we’re visiting our parents… we’re not actually ‘at home’. And with a child on either hip, it can become complicated not to be at home. You’ll recall the famous saying: Home is the where the frickin’ playpen is.

It actually hasn’t been that long since we were there last – we’d just flown up in June to celebrate my 33^rd birthday. The occasion was ominously rolling around and Azfar and I were beginning to wonder what the heck we could do in Karachi with a total of four people living within driving distance who were actually willing to meet up with us. So we thought we’d take the ostrich approach and go to Islamabad instead. I nearly changed my mind, however, after having this surreal conversation on the topic with my mother:

Amma: Aafoo, I’ve decided I’m having your birthday party.

Me: Aww. Amma, there’s no need… really.

Amma: No it’s fine, I owe people dinners anyway.

Me: Ah.

Amma (forging ahead): The guest list is coming to about fifteen people. Mashallah, there are eight of us just among the immediate family. Then I thought I hadn’t gotten my friends together for a long time, so there’s Tahira, Nina, Kaisera and Imran, Cheem and Zafri, Nazo and Bajia. Asma may not be able to make it but I’m going to ask her, of course. You never manage to meet all of them when you visit, so this will be a good time.

Me: *waiting expectantly*

Amma: If you like, you could invite one or two of your friends as well!

Me: Hmm. That could be problematic, seeing that there are more than one or two of them and, um, they’re all married with… err… children and stuff.

Amma (forging ahead): Oh, I forgot. Kaisera’s son-in-law’s birthday is also on the same day and he MAY be visiting from Dubai on a surprise visit… we don’t know yet… so I have told her that I’ll also have his name written on the cake.

Me: MY BIRTHDAY CAKE IS GOING TO SAY ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY AFIA AND ASIM’??!

Amma: Yes, I thought it’ll be a nice gesture.

Me (thinking quickly): Ma, Azfar is going to get my birthday cake.

Amma: AFIA. Don’t be SILLY. I’M hosting the birthday party. I will NOT ask your husband to buy the cake.

Me (conspiratorially): No, Ma, you don’t understand. I’m MARRIED now… it’ll look VERY weird that you’re doing everything and that my husband isn’t playing a role, you know?? What will my in-laws think? It’s just not DONE.

Amma (conspiratorially/totally-getting-it-ly): Ohhh… I see. Yes, you’re right…

And so we went to Islamabad for my birthday. Amma put a fabulous do together; so fabulous, in fact, that she was wiped out before it even started. The food was AWESOME and Amma’s awesomer than awesome friends rocked the party like they always do. On our end, Zain spent the evening bawling for no fathomable reason. So one could say the party was being rocked on one end and wrecked on the other. But everyone agreed the food was delish. And Amma had put up these lovely balloons and streamers. And the cake said ‘WANT A PIECE OF ME.’ And I got very cool gifts, ranging from perfumes and bags to book vouchers and almanacs on Elvis Presley and Muhammad Ali (yes, you read that right). And Amma gave me a hilariously appropriate card that read:

NOT EVERYONE IN LIFE IS LUCKY TO HAVE THE MEANS TO CUT A CAKE! BUT YOU DO!!!

(inside)

Chalo Shabaash Cake Khareedo Aur Kaato! It’s your Birthday!!! :p

The last present was an anonymous-looking box wrapped in generic, totally forgettable, silver paper. “Who’s this from?” I wondered, opening the card. There was a pair of scissors made on the front with a smiley face on either blade.

With you being my other half, life seems so complete and better in every way

(inside)

Happy birthday to my perfect match. To my wife!

I blinked. Then I rushed to the adjoining room, where Azfar was playing with the kids. “Thank you for the card,” I barely managed to whisper in his ear. “It was WHOLLY undeserved.” And with that, yours truly promptly started crying.

“It’s the best card ever,” I gurgled, tearing the wrapping on the gift open. “This is better than ANY present you could EVER give me. OHMYGODANiPHONEANDAKINDLE??!!!! WHOOOOOHOOOO!!!!! WHOOOOOHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!! *galloping off back to the next room* AMMAAAAAA… LOOK WHAT AZFAR GOT MEEEEEEE!!!!!”

Once the excitement had worn off, I got suspicious about the card. My peers will understand what I mean when I say that it was a little too perfect. Something was fishy in the State of Denmark. Later that night:

Me: You picked the first card you saw, didn’t you.

Azfar (sagely shaking his head): Nnnopes.

Me: Second?

A: Nnnopes.

Me: Third.

A: Maybe.

(thinks hard)

A: It was bright yellow…

Me: I don’t want to know!!!

Anyway, so in that incredibly rushed trip I remembered why it’s so goshdarned brilliant to have a home town to go to. In four days, I got more done than I’d been able to get done in six months of being in a new city. Got the tailor over to stitch my quota of summer clothes; got my bank issues sorted out; reconnected with most of our incredible friends (including two of my closest girlfriends, one of whom just had a baby a few months ago); had a birthday party; watched our parents enjoying their grandchildren; and sat on Amma’s roof.

Don’t underestimate that last point. Because when you’re from Islamabad and you move to Karachi (or Houston, for that matter) it’s almost a shock to return to that environment. You feel like a starving plant that’s suddenly been hooked up to an IV with chlorophyll. I sat on Amma’s roof, and I drank in that view and I feasted my eyes on those green-as-green-can-be hills, on the flowering plants and bushes in Nani’s lawn, the stretch of park just beyond – nearly choked with trees – and yes, feasted my eyes too on the clouds rolling over those hills, the sky so blue after the rain of the previous day. You see, I know what my friends are on about when they post those FB status updates. I know.

View from Amma's house - this one before the rain

And now I can’t wait for Eid!

Conversations with Calliope - Part V

2011-08-15T02:10:00.000+05:00

Calliope: so, i weigh 102.6 today

Me: That is so ridiculous.

Me: That's not a valid weight. That's, like, a fever statistic.

C: i should keep looking for apartments, seriously

C: i lost 3 pounds in 3 days

C: "what diet are you on?" "oh, the homeless diet."

Explosive Hanif

2011-08-11T23:23:00.002+05:00

He isn't, actually... I just needed a cheesy title for the post. When you meet him, Mohammed Hanif is somehow exactly what you might expect and nothing like what you'd have imagined. Don't ask me to explain that, please. All I know is, he's nothing close to as obvious and definable as an explosion.

We spoke for about an hour and a half about everything on the planet, only some of which was whittled down for inclusion in this interview for Papercuts Vol. 8. By the end of it, I honestly didn't know who'd interviewed whom. The man's a sponge. Now I know how he's managed to churn out two books in three years, and why he'll probably go on to write many more. What would you do if you had so much information going into your head and had a way with words?

That's the way, Habibi

2011-08-11T00:04:00.003+05:00

In this multicultural, globalised world, it is so important to keep our children rooted. Today's conversation was a good example of why:

Solom: *sneezes*

Me: Al-hamdulillah! What do we say?

Solom: Al-bless you.

Counting is fun

2011-08-05T01:44:00.005+05:00

While changing Solom's diaper:

Solom: MAMA. Yeh Solom DIAPER hai.

Me: Haan betay.

S: MAMA. Solom FOUR diaper pehna hai.

Me: Nahin betay, Baby Bhai is small so he wears # 4. Solom is big so he wears # 5. Okay?

S: MAMA.

Me: Haan betaaay...

S: Baba number SIX diaper pehna hai.

Conversations with Calliope - Part IV

2011-06-13T02:51:00.002+05:00

Calliope: i worked out yesterday

C: it took me 27 min to run 2 miles

C: how sad is that?

Me: YOU RAN TWO WHOLE MILES????

Love in the Time of Heat Stroke

2011-06-08T02:55:00.010+05:00

Ah, summer. Think summer, think holidays. Think barbecues, travel, monsoons. Think cousins, love songs, roof-top smokes. Ice lollies, air conditioning, movies, mosquitoes. Long afternoons, burning car seats, badminton in the garden. Everyone’s got an association with summer.

For me, the thought of summer brings back memories of nights spent in Islamabad as a teenager, living in my mother’s house. It was universally known that my room was the hottest in that house. It was a Southwest-facing room on the upper storey, which meant that it got the full beating of the post-noon sun in those never-ending days. To aid the baking process, my grandparents had put in massive ceiling-to-floor windows that put to rest any thoughts of insulation. And my mother, not to be left behind, had installed the oldest, loudest, most inefficient air conditioner on Earth, which threw out lukewarm air and made the giant windows rattle like there was a shuttle launch in progress. Mosquitoes were right in their element in those temperatures and I remember perfecting a macchar-killing technique that employed the concept of the sonic boom (you wait ‘till the mosquito gets close enough to your ear and then you clap your hand on your ear. The pressure kills it. Worked every time for me. No really, it did. IT DID. Just TRY IT.)

Minor inconveniences aside, the view from that room was great (as my grandmother never tired of reminding me from the confines of her cool, lower storey, Northeast-facing room) and in my teen years I was ready to brave practically anything for the privilege and complete joy of having My Own Space and My Own Bed. It’s something great to have your privacy at that age, especially if it comes with a phone. It was here that hours were spent talking to one’s best friend about nothing and everything, and the Nothings that seemed like Everything at that time in one's life.

Occasionally there were unforeseen challenges, but they were dealt with.

Best friend: “And then what did he say?”

Me: “Why are you breathing so hard?”

Best friend: “Who me? I thought that was you.”

Me: “Oh crap! Sssshhhh…”

*heavy breathing on line*

Me: “NANI WILL YOU PLEASE PUT THE PHONE DOWN?!”

Grandmother: “WHY ARE YOU ON THE PHONE AT THIS TIME OF NIGHT???”

Me: “Oh my Goddddd… NANI!!!! Put – the – phone – down!!!!”

Grandmother: “THIS IS NO TIME TO BE ON THE PHONE! ANNIE SHOULD KNOW THAT TOO!!!”

*extension receiver slams*

Me: “Where were we.”

*best friend snorting with laughter*

Yes, those nights in that oven of a room saw many heart-to-hearts against a backdrop of ballads groaned out by a National tape recorder (‘stereo’ would not be an appropriate word to use for that contraption, which would suddenly start playing the tape really fast or really slow and had to be kicked back on speed). For years, these soundtracked conversations were presided over by my friend Michael Jackson, whose image graced the bathroom door, my boyfriend Tom Cruise, whose face filled up the walls, and the perfunctory plump house lizard, frozen in some corner of the ceiling.

Summer was Richard Marx in those days. It was also Def Leppard, Bon Jovi and Madonna. It was perfect.

***

The biggest casualty of growing older isn’t your knees – it’s your sense of wonder. There was an intense romance to those days that cannot be recreated now – a feeling that the world existed only for you. A lightning storm lashing around outside used to be exciting and inspiring – now it could wake up the kids. And Def Leppard sort of doesn’t make the cut anymore (in fact, one has to wonder why guys their age were singing those songs even then). And I think if I were to call my best friend in the middle of the night to say, “Wassuuuup” she may... um... not want to be friends anymore.

I was thinking about all this incessantly over the past few weeks. Call it an early-30s crisis. I even gave my husband an unsolicited lecture on the topic while we were sitting on the roof, having our evening tea. “I miss those years,” I said finally. “Me too,” he said, “Things were so much simpler; the economy was better, conditions were safer, people had hope.” “Huh? That’s not what I mean,” I said, “I mean… my outlook on life was different. Everything meant something. Like, if I were to look up at these clouds moving across the sky when I was fifteen, they would signify something deeper. Now they’re just clouds. Do you know what I mean?” “Uh… hmm,” said my husband, burying his nose in his mug.

And then my grandmother’s sister called. They’d had a sudden crop of mangoes from the tree in their lawn and they were distributing them to the whole family. She was sending ten mangoes over.

I hadn’t had a Pakistani aam for over two years. When the fruit arrived from Nanni Nani’s place, I had it washed and refrigerated. The next afternoon, with the kids miraculously asleep and the maid busy in her room, I thought it would be nice to have a chilled mango while relaxing in the TV room. Didn't happen that way. The dense aroma of the mango and the unbearable heat of the kitchen went straight to my head. Suddenly, I remembered with enormous clarity being back at the dining table in Islamabad in the middle of June, waiting expectantly for the plate of mangoes to magically appear after every meal… not a care in the world, no diapers to change, no toddler salivating over my shoulder or infant trying to bite my knee, no plans other than to enjoy a mango (or two) and then retreat to my beautiful, hot-as-hell room – the room that was Just Mine.

I breathed in deep, sliced the mango and, without bothering to leave the kitchen or even pull up a chair, literally wolfed it down. Every bite was heaven, just as it used to be in a previous chapter of my life – a chapter in which responsibility was optional and I could more or less choose my burdens. Life had moved on but this, right here, was exactly the same. The sweet pulp; the runny, sticky juice; the joyful abandon of consuming a mango; the feeling of being free. This would never change.

And so, summer was perfect again.

Two conversations

2011-05-22T00:40:00.004+05:00

I think if Thursday could be summed up in two conversations, they would be these:

1.

(In the Gulabo store at Park Towers, browsing through their gorgeous tea-pink silk pants)

Me: Okay, I want these. Where's the large size?

Salesgirl: Ma'am, these are only small and extra small.

Me (jokingly): No hope for me then!

Salesgirl (looking me over): No, Ma'am.

2.

(At home after impromptu shopping blitz at Park Towers)

Me: Aaaaaa, I feel like it's my birthday!!!

(Azfar lying on bed with wet face)

Me: Are you crying?

Azfar: Yes.

Me: Are you adding up the numbers in your head?

Azfar: No. That would take a computer.

Manic Mumday

2011-05-09T19:17:00.001+05:00

Considering that until the night of 7th May I didn't even remember Mother's Day, it turned out to be one mother of a day.

It started just as a mother expects her Sunday to, i.e. exactly like every other wretched day. We were woken up at 7 a.m. by the well-aimed kicks of our younger son who, having slept soundly for the last three hours, was now ready to continue our never-ending meal together. By 8 o'clock, when he'd been nicely overfed and plonked in front of the TV and the driver had been despatched to Itwar Bazaar for groceries, I remarked to Azfar, "Chalo, not such a bad start, after all."

"Yes," he responded, bending to fix the feeding tray on the high-chair and instantly pulling a muscle in his back.

It was all kind of downhill from there. The maid, who was supposed to come back at 10 am after her day off, turned up at 6 pm. And I don't know which supra-muscle Azfar pulled but this one extended from the nape of his neck right down to the small of his back and halfway around his stomach (if a doctor or physio is reading this, do let me know whether you've ever come across this in a patient or if it is, as I suspect, a brand new medical discovery). So most of the day went by having conversations roughly in this vein:

Azfar: “Aaf, cream laga do.”

Me: “Okay. Let me leave Zain in the play pen.”

Solom: “Dudooooo!”

Me: “Solom, not now. Baba ko chot lagi hai.”

Azfar: “Aaaaaaarghhhh!”

Me: “What? I haven't even touched your back yet!”

Solom: “DUDOOOOO!”

Me: “Solom. SHUT. UP.”

*sound of Zain crying from the other room because he's wondering where everyone is*

Azfar: “Aaaaahhhhhhhhh... a little higher.”

Me: “Where's the pain?”

Azfar: “Everywhere.”

Solom: “Garam dudooooooooo! GARAM DUDOOOOOO!!!!!!”

Me: “Ab Solom ki pitai ho gi!!!!”

Solom (lying down): “Baba chot lagi hai.”

*Zain hysterical in adjoining room, thinking he's been abandoned for life or, even worse, been left at home while his parents have gone out with his brother*

In the middle of all this, my mother called to tell me that her sister had received Mother's Day orchids from her two sons. Great.

By evening, Azfar had had another spasm in his back, this one even worse than before (if that was possible) and was now being pushed around the house on a swivel chair, if you please. Somewhere along the way, my mother’s other sister arrived like an angel from the skies - only better, because while an angel might have come bearing something annoying like good advice or a warning for the future, my khala came laden with potato salad, spaghetti and leftover chocolate cake. The night looked like it might still be salvageable. Except Solom consumed two Turkish delights and half the cake and then spent the next three hours giggling hysterically, jumping like a Jack in the Box, and nearly giving me and Azfar a heart attack by demonstrating that he could now straddle the railing of his crib. This obviously woke Zain up, who also got infected by Solom's sugar high and started thrashing around the bed, making at least seven attempts to roll off it. By this time I was so sleepy and pissed off that I dumped Zain in Solom's cot, where he proceeded to kick the crap out of his older brother, who then had to be rescued from his own bed.

I don't really know when it all ended. But when I awoke with a start at 3 am, both kids were asleep. Storing energy for the next round, no doubt.

In a way, it was a very mothery Mother's Day, because I spent the whole day caring for three incapacitated human beings. Yet, even in the midst of all this madness, my two boys gave me something to be proud of (N.B. Azfar and I have spent the last three minutes trying to think of what he might have done to make me proud but we’re drawing a blank). During the daytime, while Zain was ineffectively wriggling on his belly in pursuit of something or the other, he suddenly lifted himself into a proper crawling position and actually held it, grinning at me like a chubby kitten. Big “OMG!” moment.

And while Solom was watching Episode # 354,276 of Dora, I saw him do something he’d never done before: try to answer a question that he didn’t know the answer to. (This particular proud moment was short lived because when he got the answer wrong, he jumped on the sofa and stuffed the corner of my beautiful, white silk cushion in his spaghetti-stained mouth).

Anyway, the good news is that everything I’ve related above happened yesterday. There are already nearly 24 hours between me and Mother’s Day 2011. Azfar’s back has improved greatly, I’ve eaten three cookies and the electricity just came back. The bad news is that it’s nearly 7 pm and the kids are about to come home from the park.

*Braces self*

Gone in 60 Minutes

2011-04-29T01:41:00.001+05:00

My never ending take on the Greg Mortenson drama can be found here on the Desi Writers Lounge blog.

In other news, I have come up with a truly excellent title for my next blogpost. It's so good, I'm sure someone's already done it before.

Conversations with Calliope - Part III

2011-04-23T17:00:00.000+05:00

Me: Such a strange situation... when my son's awake, I want to throttle him. When he's going upstairs to be put to sleep, I want him to come back down.

On hygiene

2011-04-19T03:21:00.002+05:00

Solom and I were recently taking a short cut through an empty plot littered with all kinds of rubbish.

*Solom picks up a brick*

Me: Ugh, Solom, no!

*Solom throws brick a mile away*

Solom: This is DIRTY! This is GANDA! This is CHEEE! This is EEWWW! THIS IS GROSS!!!

Me: *staring with mouth open*

*Solom picks up another brick and walks off*

A sense of be-lawn-ging

2011-04-16T02:50:00.002+05:00

Here's the honest truth: I've never been too big on clothes. I've usually just been too big for them. As a child, I was probably the only one out of a crowd of cousins who was constantly wearing someone's or the other's hand-me-downs and had no issues with it at all. As a teenager, I was perpetually in awe of the girls in class whose uniforms always looked so bloody immaculate (somehow, I was never able to emulate that neatness... I still think it's because they had heavier irons at home).

One of my good friends in A'Levels told me that he'd noticed me for the first time during O'Level exams. "You stood out," he said. "Oh really?" I asked, flattered like nobody's business. "Yes," he replied. "All the girls were dressed like babes and we were like, 'Who's that maasi?'"

POINT BEING that dressing up - and the shopping associated with the endeavour of dressing up - has always been a bit of a chore for me. My poor parents-in-law patiently waited for three years for me to transform into a butterfly bride, which of course I never did. (Their next daughter-in-law did a far better job of dolling up post-shaadi, thank God, otherwise one would've laboured under the guilt of failed expectations for years to come.)

So lawn season meant nothing to this apparel novice... until this year. Nothing can prepare a native Islamabadi for the mind mushing, electrode-exploding advertising and marketing brouhaha that marks Karachi's lawn season. Indeed, the lawn itself becomes kind of secondary. Take Asim Jofa's massive ad campaign, for instance, which featured the biggest billboards in town with Iman Ali as the Brand Ambassador. Unfortunately for Jofa, the mammoth-size photos of Iman sullenly staring into the camera while stretched out in one strange pose or the other couldn't disguise one little fact: the prints looked God-awful! If he'd limited his campaign to, say, postage stamps I may still have made the effort to check the exhibition out. Not that it matters what I thought - the day after his exhibition there was a slew of massive Jofa billboards shouting THANK YOU all over Karachi. Iman Ali - 1; Aafster - 0.

Nadia Hussain's campaign, which was running around the same time, was utterly uninspiring, looking like a drama shoot from the 1980s. Nice earrings, though. Vaneeza followed up with an interesting spin on the classic chick-in-tight-bright-jora-with-dupatta-flying-in-the-breeze formula: she didn't do it. All her billboards featured just close-ups of her face. The most you ever saw of her clothes was a random brooch peeking out from the corner of the billboard, or a tiny patch of print on her shoulder. It was odd but nicely no-nonsense. "Hi. This is Vinny the Pooh-pooh. Yeah, you know me. See you there."

There were uncountable other campaigns, one of the more striking ones being Umar Sayeed's model in a stunning red and green lawn print draped over her like a sari (but probably most memorable for her freakishly skewed eyebrow). The campaign that won for creativity, however, was Junaid Jamshed's (J. lawn). Not a single bored/angry/sexy in a maladjusted way model in sight. Instead, we got balloons. Yes, hot air balloons. Beautiful, whimsy, mad coloured balloons. And little, colourful gift bags with elaborate designs. It made me think of festivity, tissue and great ideas.

And so I attended my first lawn exhibition ever in thirty-two years of... not attending lawn exhibitions. And I was not disappointed. JJ (we're buddies now, see?) had put together a really great collection of prints. Attractive colours; pretty, wearable, sane designs; excellent fabric; a price that put some stress on the wallet but didn't break the bank. Well played, JJoo darling (astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah, astaghfirullah!).

Under normal circumstances, HSY would deserve special mention in this blogpost for THE most elegant, suave, IN.YO.FACE classy billboard on Do Talwar, showing him in a dapper as hell black suit and announcing the HSY World of Prints with a series of uber cool adjectives listed along the side. But his exhibition sucked. It was actually worse than Deepak Perwani's. Let's just pretend we never had this conversation, okay?

So, ladies and ladies, yes I never made it to Sana Safinaz but having attended three lawn exhibitions this year I feel like I've had a bit of a breakthrough here, ya? The only person I've dished out money to so far: Hazrat J. (RA). Now you tell - whose exhibition did you feel most at home at? Where did you be-lawn-g this season? ;-)

Breaking News: New Maid on the Block

2011-04-05T15:20:00.001+05:00

The name's Zohra. Bengali origin. 40+ with references that checked out; not geriatric with dubious employment background. Definitely deaf in one ear. Friendly and hands-on with the kids (a little confusing for the kids, who are wondering who the heck this enthusiastic lady is). Scrubbing kitchen as we speak. Yahoooooooooo!!!!

Nightmaid on Elm Street

2011-04-03T01:33:00.002+05:00

Disclaimer: The following story is not going to surprise anyone.

We let our maid go last week. This is the infamous Imtiaz who Suleiman claimed was my sweetheart. Anything but, as it turned out. She was hired a day after I landed in Karachi in January with my kids, exhausted and beleagured, looking to settle down again post-international move and desperate to get some rest. She immediately hit it off with my kids and came with the guarantee of someone who had the guarantee of someone else. So we hired Imtiaz.

We were initially a little unsettled by the new nanny's top-to-toe abaaya and nikab action. Who knew what hang-ups came with that garb? What if she refused to run to the store to get a packet of milk? What if we had to leave quickly and she was taking forever to get all the layers on? Even worse, what if she considered Azfar, the driver and the cleaner all na-mehram and I was doomed to have Darth Vader gliding around my house all day?

Our fears were misplaced. The moment Imtiaz's guarantor left, off came the abaaya and underneath it was revealed the most bejewelled, exceedingly pink jora I've ever seen in my life. I wouldn't be surprised if her previous employers are missing a chandelier. I'm still picking up the stray diamontees from that jora from around the house and am fully prepared for one to appear in Zain's potty one of these days.

Next, a comprehensive collection of creams and cosmetics quickly got arrayed on her bathroom shelf. Imtiaz, as it turned out, was an early bloomer; and once she'd started, she wouldn't blooming stop. A week into her employment, Vader's dupatta was casually flung across her neck; two weeks later, it was nowhere to be seen. When she was going to her brother's house to visit, however, she'd appear from her room in Dark Lord mode. And when she would return from there, she'd bring more fantastic outfits with her. It was all extremely confusing.

One thing we realised quite early into her stay with us was that she loved talking on the phone. I'm pretty sure she must've had a post-paid connection because no phone card on Earth could let anyone talk for that long. (Our friend Sarfraz told us recently that his son's nanny has a similar issue and he is expecting her to grow an extra bone that'll help hold the phone between her ear and shoulder. He thinks it may lead to an evolved race of skewed-shoulder people.) Anyway, so we told Imtiaz that she should avoid the phone while she was working. We told her that it was unprofessional. She looked like she had no idea what we were talking about (professionalism? Whaaat?) but cut down on the calls. Now she would skip dinner and retire to her room early to talk on the phone.

By this time, I was beginning to imagine what might happen if one day Imtiaz's husband in Punjab, father of her five children, turned up at our door in Karachi to meet her and discovered that she'd absconded with a phone buddy three days earlier. Although technically she wasn't a minor, it was understood that because she lived in my house I was responsible for protecting her and her Virtue. (This is not an impossible scenario, btw. Another friend's maid ran off with the neighbour's driver one day and her family started harassing the employers about her disappearance, first lodging an FIR against them for abducting her and then going to a Minister to ask for justice. Unfortunately, my friend's brother-in-law looked like the classic villain you see on PTV, replete with white shalwar qamees and big moustache. Within a couple of days, there were television crews outside my friend's house, covering the tragedy of a young, innocent girl who'd been kidnapped by a rich man for his pleasure. The aforementioned rich man immediately pledged his cooperation to the police and, on HIS suggestion, when the police traced the girl's cell phone calls, it turned out she'd been talking to her family all along. They'd set the whole thing up to get money out of the employers. Yes, that was a very long incident to relate in parantheses.)

(Ooh, wait, here's another one: yet another friend had an amazing nanny who worked with them for six years or something. When she left, they found out that she'd regularly been entertaining the neighbour's gardener and one other man in her quarter and had gotten pregnant TWICE during the period of her employment with them. There's no moral in this story; she got away with it.)

Things came to a head when Imtiaz suddenly took off on the 22nd of March with her brother, claiming that he was taking her to the doctor. After that, her phone was constantly off. When we got through to the brother, it turned out that he wasn't her brother at all... he was her cousin (if you're desi, you'll understand that that's a game changer). He wasn't even with her at the time and didn't know where she was. She didn't call again until the evening of 23rd March, which not-so-coincidentally happened to be a national holiday and the day of Pakistan's World Cup quarter-final match against West Indies. In fact, what really annoyed the hell out of Azfar was that she called right after the man-of-the-match ceremony!

We decided that evening that we weren't confident enough to keep Imtiaz as our children's nanny anymore. If we didn't trust her, we couldn't leave our kids with her. So we let her go.

What idiots! The house is in a mess, the children are upset, breakfast does not magically appear on the table every morning and lunchtime is complete pandemonium! Even the driver's annoyed because he doesn't get his tea on time (and sometimes not at all). We went today to an agency to check out another option for a nanny. We'd asked for a 40+ year-old with proper references this time and were confronted with a lady who was at least in her mid-sixties and couldn't remember her previous employers' name. It was extremely difficult to imagine this person trudging up and down the stairs with Solom, or sprinting after him in the park when he made his usual mad dash towards the road.

Bottom line: it's BEEN HELL! I've got work and laundry piling up and it's taken me eight days to write this blog entry! I'm drowning here! So if anyone in Karachi is migrating to Dubai or Chicago or wherever and is looking to pass on their amazing maid to a good household (yes, that's us) PLEASE LET ME KNOW.

And if you have a maid horror story, of course, do share so that I can convince myself that letting Imtiaz go was, in fact, the right thing to do and not the stupidest act on the face of the planet. Thanks.

This beats weight loss

2011-03-25T03:13:00.006+05:00

I'm signing up for Swapna Krishna's 2011 South Asian Challenge! The challenge is to read as many books on South Asia or written by South Asian authors before 31st December 2011 - and man am I up for it!

I will be maintaining a list of the books that I've finished reading in this post. My aim is to reach the level of South Asian Guru (> 10 books). Wish me luck or, even better, sign up for it!

Aaf's super duper, ultra impressive list of desi books devoured for the year 2011:

1. The Reluctant Fundamentalist - Mohsin Hamid

2. Beautiful from this Angle - Maha Khan Phillips

3. The Life's Too Short Literary Review (it looks like a book, okay?)
4. A Case of Exploding Mangoes - M. Hanif
5. Unaccustomed Earth - Jhumpa Lahiri
6. The Wishmaker - Ali Sethi
7. The Marriage Bureau for Rich People - Farahad Zama
8. The Collaborator - Mirza Waheed
9. Our Lady of Alice Bhatti - M. Hanif
10. Husband of a Fanatic - Amitava Kumar
11. Story of a Widow - Musharraf Ali Farooqi

Many thanks to Shehla Wynne for referring me to Swapna's blog! And if you have any suggestions for books that I should be covering, let me know in the comments section.

Update (December 19th, 2011): I'm pleased to report that I've just finished eleven books by desi authors. You may now call me The Guru. *bows* Thank you, Swapna, for providing the impetus for this and for getting me back into the groove!

Brb

2011-03-25T01:24:00.001+05:00

Apologies for having dropped off the face of the Earth. Not a day goes by that I don't think, "Oooh! That'll make for a cracking entry!" But life gets in the way, the idea is shelved and, like other discarded blog ideas, it expires immediately.

I've been having a tough few weeks but am committed to returning within the next day or two to write up a proper entry and, hopefully, find something funny to report in the midst of all the madness.

Pick me up before you go, go

2011-03-15T23:49:00.002+05:00

Feeling a little low today. Would love to hear some happy stories. O' silent readers and not-so-silent readers, if anything good happened to you recently, please share it. Let's hear something positive.

All Blue, no Wit

Faithfully someone else's

2011-03-12T20:04:00.002+05:00

"Who is Mama's sweetheaaaaaart?"

"Solom."

"Who is Baba's sweetheaaaaaaart?"

"Solom."

"Who is Zain's sweetheaaaaaaart?"

"Solom."

"And who is Solom's sweetheart?"

(Pause for thought)

"Bacchi."

The Unbearable Randomness of Stuff

2011-03-11T01:13:00.002+05:00

It’s official. My favourite word is ‘random’. There was a point at which I thought ‘problematic’ was my favourite word, but really, there’s nothing I throw around with as much joyful abandon as ‘random’. And that’s exactly what this post is going to be.

Karachi’s been a ball so far, with just one exception. Okay, two exceptions because I think my maid may have a stalker/boyfriend/what’s the difference? Our neighbours do not have an intercom. I know this because every time they have to say something to a member of the domestic staff, they hang out of the window and call out to them. Normally, this may not have mattered, except the aforementioned window is directly opposite our bedroom window. Therefore the following scenario unfolds every second day:

Afia on the verge of putting Zain to sleep, counting down the seconds until she can dip into the biscuit box.

“TAJ MOHAMMAAAAAAAAAD!!”

Zain: Waaaaaaaahhh!!!

Afia: “3… 2… dammit! 1000, 999, 998…”

It’s not just the noise. When I was living with Amma, privacy was a non-issue. We had no domestic help, so it was possible to make that occasional dash to the kitchen in a towel. After I got married, however, it became unseemly to enter the kitchen without a dupatta. I was looking forward to reclaiming some of that devil-may-care freedom when we moved. Instead, we got neighbours with a direct view into our bedroom. What’s the point of living independently, I ask you, if one can’t go commando in one’s own room?

Let me tell you something else while we're in this deep, philosophical mode. I’ve concluded that the classic New Year Resolution is a thoroughly ill-timed phenomenon and therefore doomed to fail the instant it is made. Think about it: half the population of resolutioners is either drunk or hung over when the aforementioned resolutions are being made. The half that isn’t inebriated is obviously depressed out of its mind (why else would you want to set life-changing goals at midnight in the dead of winter?) So you see, New Year Resolutions are typically being made by a group of people who are NOT THINKING RATIONALLY! No wonder you still look like a blimp when the next year rolls around! What did you think: the awesome power of Janus would work those triple-fudge sundaes off of your thighs? Resolution smesholution.

The only thing to do is to resolve things at another time of year. Do it when you’re ready to make that change. If you hit rock bottom on the 3^rd of March and you decide you’re ready to get into shape, then your new year starts on the 4^th of March. I’m convinced this is the only way to make the dratted resolution work, otherwise it’s just like starting another useless diet every year, on the year.

So I met up with my cousin and friend Sara Jamil at Butlers Chocolate Café on Zamzama last Monday! (Where did you think the fudge sundae reference came from?) Tip for the uninitiated: coffee places in Karachi are open at 9 am. (I KNOW. Who would’ve thought, right?) That’s when the mommy crowd gets out to socialise, you see. Sad people like me, who are actually happier staying awake at night, are forced to be up in time to drop their children to school. Apparently, they make up for the inconvenience by complaining to each other over a mug of cappuccino.

In other words, Karachi cafes have reinvented Monday Morning. We MUST reward them by giving them as much business as possible. Support every mug of coffee with a double-chocolate brownie, I say! It's okay, the new year doesn't start on January 1st anymore, remember?

Thanks a kilo!

2011-03-10T02:17:00.005+05:00

One of the things I've discovered recently is that tracking blog stats is strangely addictive; more so than blogging, in fact. In the last few days, when the page views were beginning to lean towards the 1,000 mark, I started signing in almost obsessively - wishing, willing that 834 to become 900 and that 967 to become 1,000. Eventually, the 998 became 1,002. I did feel a little cheated at having missed the exact moment, which was also when I realised that I was acting like a paranoid blog freak.

Perhaps it's the curse of the baby blogger. You start posting, expecting no one to read but secretly hoping that your blog will go viral and be featured on MSN news by the end of the week. What happens in reality is decent enough and pleasantly so: you get a moderate number of hits that keep rising steadily and ultimately settle into a spike pattern that coincides with each new post, indicating that you've finally got a regular readership. Your blog isn't featured on a major news network, but it does make it to the lists of a couple of other popular blogs, most of them maintained by your cousins who are either trying to help or have succumbed to duress after putting up a half-hearted fight.

By now, you haven't quite 'arrived' in the blogging world but you are becoming conscious of the new public nature of appreciation for your writing. That's when you start monitoring the stats. It takes you a couple of days to become completely obsessed and to start judging the worth of your writing on the basis of the response it gets. When no one comments, you go on a chocolate binge. When someone comments, you google yourself. You start spending a disproportionate amount of time every day wondering what to blog about next. By 'you', of course, I mean 'I'.

And then, you hit 1,000 page views in six weeks, and you realise that that's far beyond what you ever realistically imagined for your little, unknown weblog. And in that moment, there's nothing to do really except to grin and accept the amazingness of it...

... after which you Facebook the news, check back obsessively to see if someone's responded to that, monitor the stats some more, fret about not having a new entry up, write one eventually and click 'PUBLISH POST'.

Faithfully yours

2011-03-05T02:46:00.001+05:00

By now whoever's read this blog more than once probably thinks that it's a never-ending series of conversations, so I promise that my next entry will be a proper one, involving the use of paragraphs.

But first!

Conversation with Suleiman while trying to feed him dinner.

Me: Who is Mama's sweetheart?

S: SOLOM!!

Me: Yesssss!

S: BABA!!

Me: Hahaha! Yes! Shabash! Baba is also Mama's sweetheart.

S: IMTIAZ!!

Me: What?! No. Imtiaz is not Mama's sweetheart.

S: UNCLE!!

Azfar: Aaf, is there something you need to tell me?

In da hood

2011-03-04T21:19:00.003+05:00

Yes, perhaps I'm rubbing it in, but there are some things that must be gotten off the chest otherwise the host body will implode. Please read my blogpost Mothers are not for kids! for some context.

Conversation with my mother over Skype today.

Azfar: Amma, we can't see you and we can't hear you.

(Amma calls me on my cell phone.)

Amma: I can see you and hear you. (accusingly) I heard you shouting at Suleiman.

Afia: Yes, I know you can hear us. But there's a problem with the apparatus at your end. Is your camera plugged in? Check at the back.

Amma (on cell): Okay. Can you see me now?

Afia: Nopes.

Amma (on cell): Wait, hold on... Can you see me now?

Afia: Yes! I can see you! Good going, Ma! I'm impressed! If you've managed to fix the camera, there are high chances that you can fix the mic too! What did you do?

Amma (on cell): I removed the hood from the camera.

(Azfar and I look at each other.)

Me: This is so going on my blog.

Conversations with Calliope - Part II

2011-03-03T17:15:00.006+05:00

Calliope: i want a daughter

C: i'll die if i dont have a girl

Me: Okay. But keep in mind that you could die of plenty of other things associated with having kids, regardless of the sex.

Me: Even if you make it through the pregnancy and deliver, the post-delivery period will probably kill you. If not, the first year of motherhood probably will.

Me: And if you make it through THAT, wait for the teenage years.

C: im hoping i'll make enough money to be able to afford all the help i need to keep me calm

Me: Calm mothers are LIARS.

C: hahaha

Me: Are you a LIAR?

Me: ARE YOU?

C: no

Me: HUH?

C: no

Me: HUH???

Me: Say 'no' once more... it'll add a nice, even tone to the conversation.

Thank you for the music

2011-03-01T02:59:00.007+05:00

What a busy week it’s been! Azfar’s colleague and our friend, Sabeen Jatoi, finally took the big plunge with a Mianwali man (which makes her a mian-waali, according to Azfar). I have a soft spot for this match because:

(a) Sabeen’s one of the kindest, liveliest, most unaffected people I know,

(b) she’s married her best friend (highly recommended) and

If I were famous, I’d endorse this wedding.

The great thing about this shaadi, apart from the décor and saliva-inducing fashion parade, was the humour. For starters, Sabeen was the cutest bridezilla ever. Example: we were practicing the skit for her mehndi when she helpfully announced, “Listen, everyone, I just want to let you know: if you’re not that confident about getting into the acting and the roles, PLEASE DON’T WORRY! We’ll just REPLACE you with someone else! NOT an issue!”

To help things along, the bride’s wedding party was a real motley crew, ready and willing to laugh at anything. I met this amazing Indian woman called Zara Khan, married to a Pakistani and settled in London, who made such an unlikely psychiatrist that I’m convinced she’s either an undercover RAW agent or else a tennis player hiding from her adoring fans (as you know, we in Pakistan have happily confined the Indian experience to celebrities, tennis players and spies). Sabeen’s friend Tania was also a barrel of laughs – she left the job scene as a global HR exec and is now pursuing her dream of becoming a DJ. Another person I met was Nazish Brohi, an activist, brilliant hostess and talented writer who’s making the transition from journalism to fiction. Was also super pleased to meet Rizwan Ahmad, a very in-the-moment sort of photographer and the brain behind the iconic ‘Wikileaks – Butterfly Doesn’t’ sanitary napkin ad campaign. In terms of unadulterated entertainment value, though, it was Mohsin Sayeed who was the biggest blast of them all.

If Mohsin had a parallel in the animal kingdom, it would be the peacock. You look at that man and you can almost see the metaphorical tail, fanned out in all its technicolor glory as he happily struts around and works the crowd (he completely disagrees with this comparison and insists that the only thing he has in common with a peacock is his feet).

I actually met Mohsin briefly at the Karachi Literature Festival earlier in February, distributing flyers for Naya Jeevan. When I praised him for being a good Samaritan he said, “Oh please, no. I hate poor people! I’m just doing this for a friend. You want another one?”

By the time we met at Sabeen’s wedding, he had no recollection of me. But we still had an impassioned and slightly ironic discussion in the middle of her nikah about whether it was necessary to be with someone in order to be happy (ever the serial monogamist, I insisted that it was. He immediately branded that as the “tyranny of love” and informed me that the only person who knows how to make you happy is yourself, and that the chances of finding The Right Person are 1 in 6 billion. I’ve always considered myself lucky to have found Azfar but this little statistic really put things in perspective… note to self: must start making breakfast for him from tomorrow… okay, maybe from next week… OH COME ON! I’m tired from all this dancing!).

It was tricky selling Papercuts, the DWL online magazine, to Mohsin. I mentioned Sanam Maher’s excellent article on Coke Studio and Pakistani identity, at which he exclaimed, “I hate Coke Studio!” Then he said that he hated anything that was blown out of proportion, like Pakistani novelists writing in English these days (Mohsin Hamid interview, anyone?). After that he told me that a magazine cannot be a real magazine until it goes into print. We finally wrapped up with him saying that there was no point to blogging. Suffice to say, Mohsin Sayeed will NOT be reading Papercuts or browsing through this entry any time soon.

Combine the crazy conversations with the ready flow of cake, sandwiches and hand-whipped coffee, and I was hooked, dostos. Friends, food and fun: what more could one ask for in a wedding?! By the time Sabeen took her leave from home on Sunday night, I was getting teary eyed right alongside her mother and cousins. The most touching moment from that rukhsati, however, was the sight of her maid – known simply as Maasi – standing alone in the crowd of family and friends, clutching the aarsi musaf mirror, a deluge of tears quietly rolling down her face.

Thank you and bon voyage, Sabeen Jatoi – may the extraordinary love of your well wishers protect you at every step of your journey in life, inshallah.

The joy of phonics

2011-02-27T00:11:00.003+05:00

Conversation with Suleiman after returning from dinner out.

Me (showing him my wrist): What are these?

Solom: This is Mama CLIP.

Me: Nooo... these are BANGLES.

S: This is DANGLES.

Me: Bangles.

S: DANGLES.

Me: Bangles. Buh. Bangles.

S: DANGLES. BUH. DANGLES.

Don't call me Yellow

2011-02-23T01:38:00.006+05:00

Conversation with Suleiman in the kitchen today.

Solom (upon seeing a lemon in the fridge): This is MANGO.

Me: No, this is a lemon.

S: This is LAYLLUM.

Me: LeMON.

S: LAYLLUM.

Me: Lemon. LEMON.

S: LAY-LLUM.

Me: This is NOT a "layllum".

S (self-satisfied look on face): This is MANGO.

The Annual Author Run - Part I

2011-02-06T05:07:00.009+05:00

I'd pretty much been zipping around like the Energizer Bunny since hearing from my good friend, Maliha Zia Lari, that the Karachi Literature Festival was around the corner. For those of you who don't know yet (which means you haven't read all my blogposts... FOR SHAME!!!) my big project these days is revamping the Desi Writers Lounge magazine, Papercuts, for public consumption (vs. its previous status, where even the editors would forget to check how it turned out). The Karachi LitFest promised to be a veritable dream-come-true for networking and promotion (not to mention the chance to rub shoulders with celeb writers, hence the title of this post).

And so I went about preparing for the event, mainly by getting visiting cards and flyers printed. At this point I'd like to acknowledge my uber resourceful brother-in-law, Ali Imran, who runs an event management company and specialises in getting things done at the last minute (even if they could've easily been done earlier, but let's not go there for now). Master Imran got my cards printed and delivered to Karachi in 24 hours, quite an amazing feat by any stretch of the imagination. Ali, it would simply not have been possible for me to harass so many unsuspecting attendees at the festival without those cards. I thank ye, brother in arms (and law).

The afternoon before the event was supposed to begin, I received a call from Azfar. "Listen," he said casually, "I have an invite to the festival launch at the British Deputy High Commissioner's residence. You wanna go?"

Annoyed at the cosmic injustice of my book-averse husband getting Literary Me access to any part of the festival, I asked him why he of all people had received an invitation; to which he replied, "Oh, Tariq couldn't go and he saw me in the corridor, so he gave me the card."

The scales of karma restored, I grudgingly agreed to attend the ceremony. In retrospect, this was probably not a very clever idea because I'm nothing more than a germ on the literary scene at present, which obviously has nothing to do with what one's doing and everything to do with how many people know what one's doing. Fortunately, after awkwardly easing myself into several random conversations in the first half hour, I bumped into British-American journalist and writer Jonathan Foreman, who'd just flown in after attending the Jaipur Literary Festival and also wasn't familiar with too many people on the Karachi circuit. We wound up sitting together and rescued the evening by talking right through the video presentation and speeches, pausing every once in a while to clap politely or to point at the screen and ask, "Who's that?"

By the end of the launch, I'd distributed my entire stock of cards for the day, put away a large helping of smashing gajar ka halva and connected with my first celebrity author of the event: HM Naqvi (Home Boy).

In all, not a bad start. More on the main festival in the days to come!

This is not my next blog post

2011-02-03T02:30:00.003+05:00

Conversation outside bathroom this evening.

Azfar: I'm going in for a shower.

Me: Now don't take forever in there.

A: I nevah take forevah.

Me: I mean it. Don't take your normal amount of time.

A: Last time you said, "Don't take an abnormal amount of time." I'm getting confused.

Me: Take no time, is what I'm saying.

A: I'm back!

Mothers are not for kids!

2011-02-01T03:58:00.010+05:00

Earlier tonight, I told my mother to check out this blog. It was a tall order to begin with, but I thought she’d enjoy my conversation with Azfar from the day before. ‘Tall order’ because my mother is one of the most computer- and web-challenged people I know. She still has a dial-up connection, which runs on her one phone line, incidentally. And if she doesn’t use the computer for a few weeks, she forgets things like how to enter a URL in a web browser. So if I want Amma to check something on the net, I have to call her on her cell and walk her through the entire process.

Trust me, if you’d been through the conversations I’ve had with my mum from Houston to Islamabad, you’d feel my pain. Classic example:

Me: Did you see Suleiman’s pictures?

Amma: Oh! No I didn’t! Remind me again how to check?

Me: Okay. Click on that blue icon at the bottom of your computer screen that says ‘e’.

Amma: What’s an icon?

Me: Just click on the blue ‘e’.

Amma: Nothing happened.

Me: The window didn’t open?

Amma: What’s a window?

Anyway. Being the perennial optimist, I asked Amma to check my blog. To her credit, she not only made it here but also read the first entry, Conversations with Calliope – Part I. After she’d given me flack for using… uh… the slang for ‘feces’, I asked her what she thought of my conversation with Azfar. It turned out she never saw it.

“How could you have missed it?” I asked, incredulously. “It’s the latest entry, right at the top of the page!”

“Okay, I’ll check again. I’ll call you back,” she said and hung up.

A few minutes later I received two mysterious phone calls from my mother on Skype, in which I could neither see her nor hear her. She then called me on my cell and said, “It was nice… but I’ve already read that paper of yours before.”

“Ma, please don’t tell me you still haven’t seen the entry at the top!”

“What entry?”

“The one that says ‘Oh dear.’ RIGHT AT THE TOP!!!”

“The 28^th January one?”

“What?! 28^th… uff… it doesn’t matter… I can’t… this is… it’s right THERE… why on Earth… JUST SCROLL DOWN, FOR GOD’S SAKE!!!!”

“I’ll check it tomorrow.”

Moral of the story? There is none, unfortunately. My mother will never understand how to use the PC and I will always be as amazed at this as if it’s the first time I’m hearing it. My annoyance is mildly assuaged, however, by the realisation that in the future I will be reliving this exact same scenario with Suleiman, except he’ll be shouting, “JUST DIRECT THE LASER BEAM AT THE TELEPORT FIELD, FOR GOD’S SAKE!!!”. After which he’ll turn to his wife and exclaim, “She wants to drive over!!!”

Well you know what? I'm ready. I've learnt from the best. Bring it on, suckers!

Oh dear.

2011-01-31T04:10:00.008+05:00

So my husband and I were sitting at the dinner table this evening, discussing plans for his parents' visit in February.

Azfar: Abbu will be here for a week, but Ammi will stay a bit.

Me (munching on mixed bhaaji): Cool. How long is she coming for?

A: She'll stay for a bit longer.

Me (munching slowing down): As in, how much longer?

A: Three months...

Me (potato falling out of mouth): THREE MONTHS??!!!

A: ... ah sorry, three weeks.

(Embarrassed silence)

A: So much for the loving, affectionate daughter-in-law!

One year - a retrospective re-evaluation

2011-01-30T05:25:00.009+05:00

This is a shortened version of a note I wrote on FB in the summer of 2010 to mark one year of our stint in Houston, TX. It provides an appropriate background to the stuff you'll be reading here in the future!

It’s late evening on the 1st of July, 2010. At this time last year, my husband, son and I had landed at George Bush Intercontinental Airport, Houston, and were being driven home by my husband’s uncle (who I had met for the first time). It was an evening quite unlike this one: dry, hot, sunny – your classic, long, Texas summer evening.

As I sit here comfortably with my cup of chai, looking out at the deluge that Hurricane Alex is dumping at our doorstep, the memory of that drive to a temporary apartment in an alien city resonates strangely within me. I remember making small talk with Raza Mamoo while taking in the bland, cemented landscape of the freeway, then the one-storey buildings with their generic neon signs, and finally the beautifully manicured, clone-like apartments of San Brisas.

I remember walking into apartment 1401, which was to be our abode for a month, and noticing the chill of the air conditioning and the scent of an unfamiliar air freshener. I remember that through all of this, all I could think of was that my real home was very far away. Oh, and also that I couldn’t cook, dammit.

It’s been a full year today; a year through which at many points I hated Houston, seriously doubted my abilities as a mother, and generally disliked what I had become: your typical, lonely, stove-bound Pakistani housewife, saddled with an infant – the highlight of whose day was her husband coming home from office. At least, that was the case in the first few months of being here.

I should mention at this point that what made things worse was my thorough incompetence in the aforementioned role of housewife. I didn’t know the first thing about putting together a meal, had zero experience in running a house, and possessed precious little patience for the behavioural weirdities that my child kept demonstrating (all of which, it turned out, were perfectly normal for his age). I didn’t even know how to thread my eyebrows.

The end result was that Azfar would return from office to a wild-eyed bush woman in a nightie who would promptly dump a baby in his arms and either bound off into the shower or scurry to rescue whatever strange concoction happened to be bubbling on the stove. Dinner table conversation would be about the mysteries of potatoes, the many colours of baby poop and what we should buy next because that advert on television said so.

So you’ll understand why, by the time 30th June 2010 rolled around, I was under the impression that the past year had been a bit of a disaster. Except then I started thinking about it, and was pleasantly surprised to realise that that was in fact not the case (at all). All one could really say was that it had been a very eventful year – one that had actually taught me a lot. Which brings me to the real point of this note: to list everything I managed to do right by the end of these twelve months.

First achievement (this one’s nothing short of a miracle) – AFIA CAN COOK. Hurrah! When I landed in the US in 2009, I couldn’t boil rice without consulting a recipe. Last week, I made nihaari (from scratch – no Shan masala for this aspiring chefni).

As of today, I’ve tried my hand at pizza, lasagna, quiche, rosemary chicken, tarragon chicken, garlic cheddar chicken, chicken in mushroom sauce, ginger-glazed mahi-mahi, fish with lemon and garlic sauce, T-bone steak, beef burgers and several pasta dishes . In Pakistani cuisine: chicken malai kabab, tandoori chicken, chicken karahi, chicken haandi, methi chicken, butter chicken, paneer karahi, qorma, nargisi koftay, qeema, pulao, baingan ka bhurta, andday ka saalan, vegetable jalfrezi, several aaloo dishes and a few different kinds of daal (this is all I can remember at this point, unfortunately. Oh wait, stop the press – I made meethi tikiyaan for niaz). In Far Eastern cuisine: chicken corn soup, chowmien, chicken and vegetable fried rice, beef khowsey, coconut fish curry and Thai fish cutlets.

Not all of these turned out fantastic, but no one can tell me I didn’t work hard in the kitchen this last year. I slaved it out, and in most cases, I made it work.

By now you’re probably beginning to tire of this never ending ‘note’. You’re thinking I’m nothing but a big, fat show-off. You’re right! I am big and fat.

Which brings me to my next point: I’M PREGNANT! (AGAIN!) We’re expecting our second baby in August, inshallah. And yes, it’s going to be a challenge caring for an infant when Suleiman’s not yet two years old, but you know what? If all goes well, in another month-and-a-half we’ll have completed our family. That’s not too bad as achievements go. And yes, the next few years are going to be tough, but after that I’m going to be free to pursue other dreams at a time in my life when I can still be productive and get great things done that will CHANGE THE WORLD! (This note gives the world a few years to prepare.)

Which brings me to my third point: chuck that stove-hugging, home-chained banshee image out of your brain because I’ve just become Editor of a South Asian literary magazine (something that spawned out of a writers’ community that I co-founded five years ago with a bunch of truly amazing individuals). Soon, you’ll be able to read regular pieces that I’ll be posting on the community’s blog, which will tell (far more concisely than this note, mercifully) stories of all the weird and wonderful things I’m experiencing as Azfar and I travel on the road of life together.

Which brings me to my fourth point: in the last year, we’ve managed to see New York, DC, Dallas, Austin and San Antonio, and made a trip back to Pakistan for my brother-in-law’s wedding (I went to Dubai for the first time on that trip). At times, we even managed to make it to downtown Houston! We’ve seen a U2 concert, the world’s most famous circus, the rodeo and a top-rated Broadway show.

And last, but most important: today, I’m a better mother than I was this time last year. ‘Nuff said.

Not bad for a fumbling, bungling housewife in one year in a foreign country, eh? Next on the agenda: dance classes! But that’ll have to wait until after I’ve produced our second butter-chugging machine.

Conversations with Calliope - Part I

2011-01-28T13:35:00.009+05:00

Calliope: why don't you start blogging?

Me: Because it would be a boring as HELL, completely self-absorbed load of crock and no one will want to read it.

C: i'll read it

Me: I have nothing intelligent to say anymore, another thing I hold against my child.

C: it can have pictures

C: it can be about afia and solom taking on texas

Me: The only way in which I've taken on Texas is to install a Muslim shower next to the commode.

C: i have a lota

Me: Yeah, the rest of the bathrooms have lotas.

C: my favorite part of going home is reaching the dubai airport and rediscovering muslim showers

Me: I SWEAR.

Me: It's SUCH a relief.

C: it's ALWAYS a pleasant surprise

C: "hello, old friend, i just realized how much i've missed you"